Next week I get assimilated. Bye-bye freedom; hello cyborg status. I’m having an insulin pump fitted - or rather, coupled to me - and this plays into all my paranoias about feeling suffocated, tethered, pigeon-holed and restricted. Those doctors of mine have got this tiger by the tail.

Let me say that I have issues. Cue applause and gentle cooing noises from the crowd. I’m not talking about anything specific; it’s general but shows itself most keenly in work situations. Put me in full-time employment and I immediately feel trapped, preferring release through self-sabotage rather than lingering decay at the same desk for more than twelve months. No staying power or an enquiring mind? Either way, I’m a born freelancer. Make me commit to a role for too long and I find myself twisting to get away, frustrated to tears by the pointless politics, need for consensus and slack-Alice workmates.

Working on freelance projects helps me keep boundaries that I’d otherwise lose sight of. I’m happiest if the company is at arm’s length. This way I don’t end up embodying the flaws I inevitably find through scrupulous nit-picking and unrealistic expectations. I do my job. I just know my limitations, brought about by an unnecessarily acute skill for getting too involved, taking it too seriously.

Nowadays, it’s a gentler colour-wash dislike for being tied-down that I deal with. Too many diary dates and I end up cancelling everything, hibernating in the flat for days on end, debating whether I should walk two streets to the market or shop Albert Heijn online. The ‘have to’ in taking medication means that I invariably ‘forget’ to take my pills at least a couple of times a week. And does my cat really need to be fed every day?

So hearing that I need to have a digital pump attached to a tube which is attached to a needle that is inserted under the skin near my belly-button fills me with irrational waves of claustrophobia. My personal space is being invaded by a machine of some weight that has a disconcerting ability to peep for reasons I as yet cannot understand. It smells medical. And some doctor or another used the word ‘always’. It is supposed to hang from my belt, or be clipped to me, 80’s style, like a mobile phone. “It’s the size of a pager” one nurse lied. But I don’t have a pager. Because I choose not to have one.

I resent the fact that one of these pumps is worth considerably more than any other single item in my apartment. I also resent its ugliness; it looks institutionalised – have I now become that woman on the tram? They tried to jazz it up by calling the colour anthracite green, but that doesn’t fool me. It’s boxy. It doesn’t go with any of my outfits and I’m going to have to reconsider every fashion purchase in line with the pump’s need for concealment.

I’m making a fuss. It’s not a big deal, really. But the ‘forever’-ness of it all smarts because I’m not into being held hostage by a machine. Magnus suggests a Versace holster for it; Kate recommends accessorising with a burlesque dash of sequins and feathers. If I was a Trekkie I’d have it glued to the side of my forehead and give 7-of-9 a run for her money. Instead, I have to choose from a catalogue which carry-case I’m going to use and order it from a warehouse that undoubtedly also deals in prosthetic limbs and colostomy pouches. It just isn’t how I see myself.

I envisage a white beach, a light breeze, a gently rolling surf and Ursula Andress shimmying gracefully up the shore. Except it’s me inside that body. Now? It’ll be as above – of course – but with a white plaster stuck near my belly-button. A translucent tube snakes from it into an angular plastic box the size of a cool-bag that gives me trouble as I try to wheel it through the sand on a trolley. Ursula/I huff and puff as I pull the blighter behind me; suave Mr Bond looks away as I lollop by, sweating.

“You can uncouple it for a maximum of three hours”, the doctor tells me, “if you want to go swimming for instance.” Everyone uses this same example, as if the best and only thing I can ever do with my spare time is grow gills.

“You can’t drink”, she continues. “Well, okay, one glass of wine is okay.” I sit looking at her. “But I drink cocktails” I say, as if that trumps her comment, argument won. She doesn’t get it. “I drink cocktails. Socially, with my friends. You know – it’s not like its one glass of wine…” She looks at me, waiting. I wait back. She waits back at my waiting. “So”, I conclude. “You can’t get drunk, if that’s what you mean”. And with that she has played her ace.

At this point it’s not funny any more. Up to now I’ve been sitting at the hospital in a room that smells of insulin, making nice with the doctor and pretending to be interested in all the machines she spreads before me. Now I just want to go home and have a lie down. I’m never going to see my friends again. I will lead a solitary existence and die alone. “But vodka’s okay. It’s pure.” “No.” “It’s got no carbohydrates in it and no calories.” “That’s not strictly true. And no.” I don’t like this game.

I call Magnus on the way home. “No alcohol. I’m not allowed to mix the insulin with alcohol.” “Did you tell her you drink vodka?” he asks, then says something in Swedish that I don’t understand but take to mean ‘you poor sad fuck – you’re not gonna have any friends left.’ “I told her I drink cocktails but she didn’t understand.” “Right, fuck it. Have one hell of a cocktail party before you have to start with the thing. Drink everything that’s left on the balcony.”

So that’s what we do. It’s not that I drink a lot, because I really don’t. But it’s fun to have cocktails once in a while – and when you do, it’s even more fun to have more. I’m good at throwing casual but caustic soirees involving bubbles and cranberry. It’s a skill that I happen to have. I’m also known for ‘tidy as you go’ which isn’t so endearing and frankly pisses a lot of people off, who say that it tends to dampen their party spirit. Phooey, says I.

In the end there’s no toast to the insulin pump, no waving off of the empty bottles, no party sparkle stuck to the dirty glasses awaiting the arrival of the washing-up goblin. There’s me, a newly opened packet of Paracetamol and an appointment at the AMC for 9.30 Monday morning.